


What If You Don't?

by AgentBuzzkill



Series: Fic Requests [6]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor spoilers for s12e18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:50:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentBuzzkill/pseuds/AgentBuzzkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He holds on until he can hear the voice of Emily Grey, until he hears her call for people to help her move him, and she asks if Wash can hear her.</p><p>He nods, and she says he’s going to be okay.</p><p>He takes that as his cue to pass out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What If You Don't?

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw a Tuckington post from deadlyspace on Tumblr, and figured I absolutely had to write something for it.
> 
> This turned into a lot more than a drabble very fast, but I have a feeling you don't really mind.
> 
> Minor spoilers for Season 12 Episode 18 of Red vs Blue.

He remembers taunting Locus. He remembers the rage, simmering in the pit of his stomach. The defiance. The hope.

He does not let himself think about Tucker. He does not let himself think that he hasn’t seen Felix in a while. He absolutely does not let himself worry.

Instead, he focuses on the present problem: the fact that he has no idea where the fuck Locus is.

Except then he does.

And everything hurts, the blows Locus lands wherever he can touch are unrelenting. If Wash could feel anything but the sudden pain, he might be satisfied. Clearly he got under the “perfect” soldier’s skin. 

But Locus does not let up. He leaves no room for Wash to gain the upper hand, does not pause for a moment in his endless attack. He rages against Wash, uses his body as a punching bag.

Though Wash thinks that might be preferable to being used as Locus’ pincushion. But only just.

He only knows pain until the darkness begins to settle in. 

He can tell Locus just wants him to lay down and die already, that he’s getting tired of beating Wash to a bloody pulp, and Wash thinks that at one point, he might have. If this had all happened at a different point in Wash’s life, he might have gladly accepted the fate Locus clearly thought was in store for him.

But then there is a flash of aqua in his mind, a memory of bright eyes and wide smiles. He hears a laugh, a sigh, someone calling his name. A familiar voice. He smiles around the blood in his mouth, in spite of the pain of his split lip. 

He hold on to the pain. Holds on to consciousness until Locus receives a message from someone and finally relents.

He holds on until he can hear the voice of Emily Grey, until he hears her call for people to help her move him, and she asks if Wash can hear her.

He nods, and she says he’s going to be okay.

He takes that as his cue to pass out.

-x-

When he wakes up, he is alone. But that doesn’t last long.

“Agent Washington! You are awake! I missed you so much!”

Caboose is a flurry of movement and noise, making Wash’s head pound in an almost pleasant way, the headache a reminder that maybe his whole team is going to be fine. 

Caboose is clutching what Wash can only assume are wildflowers that were once growing nearby…wherever the hell he is.

Where the hell is he?

Before he has time to say anything, Caboose deposits his belongings in Wash’s lap and moves as though he were going to wrap his arms around Wash. Wash makes a noise of mild panic, braces himself for the pain that is sure to come, but he hears another voice.

“Caboose, be careful!”

And then Doctor Grey is there, with a tray of food and a fondly menacing look (a look that somehow only she managed to pull off). Caboose, to his credit, looks apologetic and steps back, holding his hands behind his back.

“I’m sorry, Washington,” he says, and Wash can’t find it in him to be mad. “I just wanted to let you know I’m glad you’re okay.”

“It’s fine, buddy,” he says, and Caboose brightens a bit. “I’m glad you’re okay too.”

Grey busies herself checking on Wash’s wounds, changing a few of his bandages and making sure he hadn’t suffered any serious damage. Caboose acts as her nurse, handing her supplies and following her orders as she examines Wash.

“You’re definitely out of the woods,” she says, bending Wash’s knee experimentally. Wash winces, the joint is still somewhat tender. He thinks he remembers Locus stomping on it. 

“Bit of a shame,” she continues, “I was really hoping we could amputate something! But I guess you’re happy about having all your limbs.” She steps back, rubbing her hands together. “You should be fine! Definitely rest up in these next few weeks, but other than that you’ll be okay!”

Wash sits up with some difficulty, and Caboose is quick to swoop in and help him get situated. 

“Doctor Grey,” he says, and she gives him a questioning look. “Where’s Tucker? Is he okay?”

-x-

Tucker is not okay.

That much is clear by the fact that he has not regained consciousness yet.

“He lost a lot of blood,” Kimball says from her place standing behind Wash’s chair. “There was only so much they could do, but…” she hesitates, and Wash knows she’s keeping something from him, probably to save his feelings.

“Don’t spare me any details,” he says, with an edge to his voice. “I can take whatever it is.”

Kimball sighs, says softly: “They’re worried they couldn’t do enough.”

Wash grips the arm of the chair, thinks he hears the plastic crack. 

“It was what, a knife wound? How much damage could it-“

“He lost a lot of blood,” Kimball repeats. “Not to mention a good number of his organs took at least some minor damage. That damage could become major if it isn’t monitored, and if he doesn’t wake up soon…he might never.”

Wash doesn’t say anything. Kimball leaves without another word.

-x-

Sometimes Caboose comes to visit Tucker. Sometimes it’s the Reds, but Wash can only take so much of them before he all but forces them out of the room at gunpoint. Sometimes a boy who calls himself Palomo comes, but he doesn’t say much and he doesn’t stay long.

So most of the time, it’s just the two of them.

He isn't sure if he should say anything.

He doesn’t, for the first whole day. He just sits. Sometimes he reaches out and takes Tucker’s hand, sometimes he sits and strokes his palm and admires the callouses of his fingertips. He looks at the contrast of their skin colors, the milky pale of his hand, spotted with freckles and scars, and the dark brown of Tucker’s, marred with different scars in different places. Different stories, different wounds.

And yet somehow their hands still fit together perfectly.

When he starts to talk, it’s just in little statements. Responses to his one-sided conversations with himself, murmurs that Tucker really should wake up, that he needs to wake up, that with every day he doesn’t wake up the chances that he will grow smaller and smaller. 

He starts feeling remorse on the second day.

“I’m so sorry, Tucker,” he says, and some part of him doesn’t even really know what he’s sorry for, just that he’s sorry. That he could have done something to prevent this, that if they’d gone together or if he’d fought better or if he’d kept his damn feelings to himself and never let himself get so close to Tucker in the first place, then maybe none of this would have happened.

“It’s not like I regret you,” he says on the third day, gripping Tucker’s hand again and leaning forward, resting his forehead on their clasped fingers. “I could never regret you. But sometimes I wish I could. I wish I could make myself leave sometimes.”

He sits up then, almost shocked at what he’s saying, but he knows it comes from a place deep in him. He knows that he’s been thinking this for a while. It needs to be said.

“I want to be able to wish I’d never met you. I want to be able to say that you don’t matter, that I can pick myself up and leave whenever I want to. I should be able to, you know. I mean, look at where I came from. Look at the people I used to know.” 

He swallows, notices the hand holding Tucker’s is getting sweaty with nerves and frustration. There’s an itching in the back of his eyes but he ignores it.

“I shouldn’t have been able to trust you. I should have kept hating you. I wish I could. Dammit, Tucker, I just wish I could hate you. But I can’t. I never will.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, never speaks above a conversational volume. But his voice is filled with emotion, trembling and cracking and he can feel himself splitting at the seams, knowing that only one person can stitch him back together and if he would just open his fucking eyes maybe Wash could stop the words spewing out of his mouth, this poison that he doesn’t want to believe and yet he’s carried it in the back of his mind since that first night they spent together. Since the first time Tucker surged up to meet Wash’s lips with his own. Since he met Wash’s eyes and Wash could feel himself falling and reaching out and trusting too deeply, too wholly, more than he ever thought he could again after the mess that was Project Freelancer. He was doomed from the start, he knows that now.

“I want to see you smile again,” he says softly, leaning in close again, his free hand reaching up to slide over the ridiculous shaved sides of Tucker’s head, through the thick curls he kept on top. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he’d said, when Wash caught him shaving and laughed for a solid five minutes. “It’s called fashion, look it up Mister Touch-Of-Grey.” 

“I want to hear your laugh,” he continues, “I want to hear you make fun of me. I want to go back to Blood Gulch and get on your ass about skipping leg day. I want to get off this planet, I want to follow you wherever you want to go. I could do that, you know. Just spend a lifetime following you. If you let me, I would.” He leans further, presses his forehead to Tucker’s. 

“I used to wonder why I was here. I couldn’t figure it out, why I’d managed to survive all the shit that Project Freelancer put me through. And for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why the universe decided to dump me in Blood Gulch of all places, left to whip a bunch of idiots into shape.

“But I think I was supposed to meet you. I want to think that, and I want to think that we were always supposed to be like this. Maybe we’ve always been like this, in every life we’ve had. Maybe we’ll always meet each other, no matter who or where we are. I didn’t believe in fate, not until now. Not until this.

“And I’m not one for declarations of…love. And I’ve never had much faith in a higher power. But I swear to whatever is up there that I will do anything to see you open your eyes. Please Tucker. I don’t want to go on without you. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end, not like this. We’re going to go take down Felix and Locus once and for all. And we’ll find out who Control is, and take them down too. And then we’ll be able to get off this planet and go wherever you want to. Even if it is just back to Blood Gulch.” 

He sits for a moment in silence. He’s said his piece, he’s out of words. The rest is up to Tucker.

Tucker doesn’t respond. The silence is deafening, it roars in Wash’s ears as he sits up, runs his fingers through Tucker’s hair again. The tears well up in his eyes in earnest now, defeat and loss looming above him and waiting for him to give up, to let go. Breathing is getting harder. 

He closes his eyes, braces himself (for what? He doesn’t even know). He tries to pull his hand from Tucker’s.

Only to have Tucker’s fingers twitch around his. 

His eyes fly open, tears falling as he looks at their hands, notices Tucker’s fingers curling and tightening around his. 

His gaze trails up slowly, not daring to hope, not daring to let himself think he’s actually gotten what he wants this time around.

But when he looks at Tucker’s face, his eyes meet Tucker’s. Tucker’s wide, open, dark eyes, full of mirth and mischief and a phantom sadness that is easier to see on some days than others. When he speaks it is low and weak, a rasp of words.

“Miss me?”

Somehow, it’s still music to Wash’s ears.


End file.
